Words: Ryan Getz

I haven’t been as entrenched in the Deafheaven hype as a lot of folks. Yet, I was intrigued enough to check out their live show in a former bank turned concert hall.

Prior to this evening, the most extensive experience I had with the band was watching videos of them performing at Pitchfork Festival and listening to their 2015 release New Bermuda front to back while driving to Nashville. The black gaze music oddly reflected the rainstorm I drove through.

On to the evening – it was odd to see a concert venue not owned by Promowest packed to the gills before 7pm. I spotted people from several different scenes in the room- always a good sign.

Power Trip kicked off the evening a little after 6:30 with a quick and dirty set of throwback thrash metal. It was easy to see why they ended up on a tour with Anthrax and Lamb of God. If anything, Deafheaven are the odd band out of that tour package, even though Power Trip frontman Riley Gale expressed his incredulousness more than once at that opportunity. A circle pit quickly formed, though participation was a bit more sparse than I’m used to seeing. Shout to Daniel Cudney (of Snow Day) for doing what he could to get the crowd moving. Though he was mostly lost in his own world (Gale handed the mic to him at one point).

Deafheaven took the stage (which was newly rebuilt and elevated, I might add) and prompted the house lights to be dimmed. The band powered through seven songs over the course of an hour – definitely enough to satisfy any fan’s appetite, but leave them wanting more.

I mention in the title of the article that there was a duality present in the band’s set. Black metal is the textbook definition of what Deafheaven does, but if you’re reading this you’re very probably aware that they are multidimensional. As dark desperation gave way to interludes, like being lost at sea after a particularly awesome storm, the audience oscillated between quiet observation and something bordering on, but not quite, a mosh pit. In one particularly rowdy moment vocalist George Clarke leaned on the audience. The brief moment of crowdsurfing was so fluid that its juxtaposition against the machine-gun noise coming off the stage seemed akin to an exorcism – the crowd the priest, and the noise the indwelling. In a complimentary nine minutes to close the show, the band played the sole cut from Sunbather of the evening – “Dream House.” Clarke’s jerky hand motions acted as a conductor of sorts, bringing the crowd into a state that was almost reverent. I never thought I’d say that black metal translated to a spiritual encounter, but in those last few minutes as swells enveloped the sweaty bodies of the room, my thoughts turned to entering the throne room of Heaven, serenaded by oddly reverb-y cherubim.